Spider-Man 2114
by seriousish
Summary: In a futuristic city, Peter Parker investigates a string of missing sex workers, running into cab-driving detectives, mad scientists, roboticized doms, and lesbian sex. Based on Ralph Bakshi's Spicy City. Inspired by CMR Rosa.
1. Chapter 1

_They say that romance has become a lost art, but art only becomes lost when it becomes artwork. Nowadays, machines do all the work, that makes men lazy. Could it be romance is dead because it's too much work not to be primitive? Too bad machines can't do the work of romance…_

* * *

><p>The first thing Virus did when she got home was thump on the air conditioner. It was old, and would conk out soon enough, but for a few minutes it pumped out a nice stream of cool air that was just what she needed after a long day of strutting her stuff. She kicked off her heels and sat down, her bare feet up on the cracked coffee table far more orgasmic than anything she'd been paid for. Belatedly, she thought to turn the lights on and see the grandeur of what she paid three hundred bucks a month for, plus handjobs to the super—there was Spider-Man, crouched on the windowsill.<p>

A few months back, she'd been run down by a gang of jackheads who were looking to get a five-finger discount on what she was selling. Spider-Man had swooped in, given them what for, left them for the cops—what any upstanding citizen would do. Then he'd walked her home, asking if she needed anything, given her a phone number to call if she had any problems in the future. Even the odd decent cop didn't do that; they preferred looking down on her—getting 'thanked'. Weird world: guy in a bug suit was the only one who seemed to actually care.

Since then, she'd been giving him information. Not much; she'd lived this long by keeping her ears closed and her eyes down. But she thought he'd been able to find Electro and Hammerhead because of tips she'd given him.

"I don't suppose you put on a pot of coffee," Virus said, looking longingly at her empty grinder.

"I was worried it would explode. What do you know about the missing prostitutes?"

Virus rolled down her stockings, out of the legholes of her bodysuit and off her long, tanned legs. "Nobody knows anything, Spider. Something like that goes down, even _we _talk to the cops."

He stepped inside her apartment, pacing—she thought mainly an excuse not to look at her while she was _dishabille. _"Someone has to know something. A customer that's been giving you the creeps, someone hanging around where he shouldn't be…"

Virus unzipped her black one-piece. Her waist was tiny and firm, her breasts large, with only the tips covered by the cups of her bodysuit. She pulled them out of their confines, enjoying the thought of Spider-Man seeing them—perfectly round, grapefruit-sized, and as tan as the rest of her. Of course, there was no way to tell if he was looking with that mask of his. Who knew, maybe he was gay.

"What customers?" Virus asked. Picking herself up off the easy chair and leaving her clothes behind—giving Spider-Man a look at her rounded ass, two cantaloupes in a bikini bottom—she went to the window and poked open the blinds with her fingers. Just two blocks away was the Cybersex Arcade, its storefront in the shape of a kneeling nude, open legs flanking the entrance. The biggest virtual whorehouse outside of the Senate. "Everyone's going to the new joint. Sexbots. Cheap, clean, don't burp, don't fart—supermodels who fuck like fat chicks. You're looking at an endangered species, Spider."

She ran a hand through her flattop hair—platinum blonde, with a single bang twisting down across her brow. In the old days, a look like that would've identified her as crème da la crème. Now, no one cared.

"Maybe it's for the best," Spider-Man said. "You're in a dangerous line of work. Let the machines have it."

"And make my money doing what? Fighting crime? There a lot of money in that, Spider? Bet I'd fill out that costume better—"

He jumped back onto the windowsill, landing in a crouch. "If you don't know anything, I won't waste anymore of your time. Stay safe. I'll go on patrol, see if I get lucky—"

"Or you could get lucky right here." Virus turned around, splaying herself over her window. A pin-up pose—leg up, arms coiled, lock of hair falling across her face, asking to be brushed out of the way by a noble suitor. "It's been a slow night, Spider. I'm getting out of practice. What say I give you a quickie on the house? You can keep the mask on…"

He stared at her for too long; definitely not gay. Unless he was checking for a penis. "No thanks. I'm trying to cut back."

Then he was out the window, _thwip, _and swinging on a star. Virus hurried over to watch him go, as the AC conked out and the sweat started to touch her body with the growing firmness of an insistent lover. Maybe she should retire. She was too kinky for a guy in red and blue spandex.

* * *

><p>Nisa walked through the crowded police station, shivering in her pink sweater. She cared about justice and the law and everything, but in a scorcher like Spice City, the air conditioning at One Police Plaza was reason enough to join up. That certainly seemed like the reason most of the men had joined. They certainly couldn't care about the law.<p>

If only the AC wasn't dialed down to Arctic levels. A sweater was almost good enough, but some days she wished she had a parka. Maybe then she wouldn't be so uncomfortable with the attention she received. Men whistling, craning their necks to watch her as she passed. Their eyes on her well-developed breasts, bouncing merrily inside her tight sweater… if it wasn't their hands on her pert ass.

She made her way through the obstacle course to the Vice department, and the two cops working the missing hookers case. They crowded around a workstation, the holo-screen showing a coffee-skinned woman with jet-white hair. The way she was dressed, it took Nisa a minute to figure they were reading a police report and not watching a porno. Virus, the name on the report read. She was good at noticing details like that. Good practice for when she made detective.

Stern was a big guy—steam-shovel jaw, gritted eyes, a voice like being dipped in gravel. His partner, Connolly, was thin and reedy, his narrow face barely peeking out from under his porkpie hat. The two smoked incessantly. Nisa stood well clear of their fogbank.

"Connolly, Stern?" she asked, even though she knew. "You're working the missing prostitutes case?"

"Yeah? What's it to you?" Stern didn't look up from his work until Connolly elbowed him, then he gave Nisa the kind of look that would send her running for a police officer if she wasn't one herself—or dealing with one.

"I was thinking I could help you solve it."

"Great," Connolly said. "Go get us some coffee."

"I'm a hard worker—I graduated top of my class from the academy—" Nisa stopped giving her resume. They weren't interested. "Look, I think the disappearances have something to do with the Cybersex Arcade."

"That's a nice joint," Stern said. His flattened eyes widened. "You like to go there, Nisa? Have your roll buttered on the other side?"

Nisa ignored him. Just a little hazing. Everyone had to put up with it. "It opened a few weeks after the first disappearance. Most of the sex workers were in hiding because they were threatened; the Arcade got people to start coming because there was no other option."

"And they've been coming in droves ever since," Connolly said. They both laughed.

"I think the Arcade has something to do with the disappearances… I could go there right now and check it out—if someone would log me out a squad car." Budget cutbacks. She needed a superior officer's written permission to get a _stapler._

"We're not giving you a squad car, rookie." Stern unzipped his pants. "But I've got something else you can ride…"

Nisa hurried away. Who would've thought that after so much time scrimping and saving to get into the police academy, that she'd miss driving a cab?

Then she started to wonder why two detectives investigating a missing persons case were looking up a person who hadn't gone missing yet.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter Parker fought the urge to adjust the tie on his retro blue suit. The office he was in wasn't as intimidating as some he'd seen—wasn't as sleazy as a lot of the places that were hiring. It'd been bought wholesale from a liquidated tech start-up, moved into with the artwork still on the walls. But the place had been foreclosed for so long that the offices' clean-up was still ongoing. Deeper in the building, Peter could hear exterminators going about their work. The janitorial service had refused to come in before something was done about the tidal wave of rats living on the premise.

Max, his prospective boss, sat behind a desk with a sparse collection of executive widgets and a vast collection of dust. Max was a big guy, balding, a cheap suit with a five hundred dollar haircut. Like the building, he was still getting used to the huge amount of capital his company was generating. Peter looked at him and wondered how a schmuck like him had lassoed lightning in a bottle.

"Well, kid, I gotta say, it's not easy to find someone with your engineering expertise on the job market, even with the economy being what it is. I'm surprised you haven't been snatched up by Oscorp or Alchemax."

"I have limited availability," Peter said. "I'm more used to freelance work."

Max puffed on his cigar. Always the cigars with these people. Peter was lucky he wasn't allergic. "Hey, we don't judge here. What you do on your time is your business, so long as you keep the merchandise running properly. And don't fiddle with it yourself, of course."

"It's not really my bag," Peter said.

"But we do offer employee discounts."

"Thanks. I'll show up for the maintenance tomorrow morning."

"Yeah. Be quick, be professional—just be a nerd, like you been today. You do a good job with this, you could be sitting in my chair when the company goes national."

Peter's phone rang. He checked it rather than consider the prospect of Max's dusty desk. The call was coming over the Shadownet, through the routers he'd installed to keep the signal from ever being traced. Otherwise, he'd never have felt comfortable giving out a number for Spider-Man to be reached at.

"Sorry, I have to take this. If that's all, I guess I'll just see you again tomorrow?"

"Sure thing, kid. Get gone. And try the merchandise! I'll have your employee discount approved before you're out the front door!"

Peter nodded thankfully, but he was already checking the caller ID of the rerouted signal. Virus. He lowered his voice to Spider-Man's tones as he answered. "Hello?" he greeted, just outside Max's office.

The voice was distant, but audible even over the sounds of objects breaking and tearing. "There's nothing in here, I told you, _I can't pay you."_

A break-in. She must've dialed his number before they got in.

Peter stepped into the elevator, jamming the Door Close button. As they slid shut, he was already unbuttoning his shirt.

* * *

><p>Nisa had followed Connolly and Stern only to shadow their investigation, find what angle they were working and see if she could contribute anything. She had never expected things to get violent.<p>

They'd corralled Virus outside the Cybersex Arcade, where she'd been trying to entice the patrons to 'eat organic'. Right away, the situation was all wrong. They leaned into her, loomed over her, asking where their money was. Nisa got it right away. Protection money. She set her phone to record and got as close as she dared, recording as Virus told them that she didn't have any money to be protected. The Arcade was cutting into her profits too much.

They didn't believe her. Hectoring her with vile comments and brisk slaps, they forced her back to her apartment, then shoved her to the side while they tossed the place. From the fire escape, Nisa continued to film through the window. Then Stern pulled a gun.

"Nobody lies to police," he said, pushing Virus's head around with the barrel. "That's Stern's Law. _Where's our money?"_

"Wrapped around your dick, if you can find it."

The gun went back over his shoulder, then rushed around like a baseball bat to knock Virus to the ground. "Shit, Connolly, I'm starting to see the appeal of knocking these dames around. You think I should do it this time?"

"Nah." Connolly had a pair of brass knuckles on. "I'd still enjoy it more. You wanna watch this time?"

"Yeah. I should get a picture of that pretty face. A sorta 'before and after' thing…"

Nisa knew it was a bad idea. A suicidal idea. But she'd only intended to film a shakedown, not an assault. Swearing, she tapped her phone on the window glass, drawing their attention. "Hey boys. Say cheese!"

Stern fired at her so fast it was almost instinctual, a bullet cracking the windowframe like a blow from an ax, but Nisa was already jumping down to a floor-level dumpster, then down into the alley and she was off like a shot. Behind her, she heard the window smashed open. She was grateful they were giving chase. She'd driven her cab through these streets long enough to know every little shortcut. They didn't have a chance of finding her.

* * *

><p>Virus washed herself off in her bathroom. Until recently, its cleanness had been a point of pride with her—a separation from the shithole she'd grown up in. A kick from Stern had smashed the toilet and most of the shower tiles had been shattered by the butt of Connolly's pistol. The sink still worked, though, even if the water spilled through the broken porcelain more than it went down the drain.<p>

"Jesus, Vi, what happened?" Spider-Man. He stepped gingerly in through the window, this time avoiding broken glass.

"Nothing much," she replied. "Some people I owe money to." She checked her face in the mirror. She'd definitely bruise. That would improve her prospects, yessirree…

"You don't seem the type to get in bed with a loan shark. Uh, no pun intended—"

"I'm not," Virus stressed. "But when someone has a badge _and _a gun, and they say you owe, you pay them."

Spider-Man began tidying up. Virus watched in a bit of disbelief. First time she'd seen _any _guy do that, let alone one in spandex. "How much do they want?"

"Enough."

"How much?" he repeated, collecting the broken glass on the floor with a fine spray of webbing.

She told him.

"Christ, I thought my college loans were bad." He thought for an instant as he wadded up the glassed webbing, dropped it in her trash can—which, ironically, they hadn't damaged. Then Spider-Man took his wallet out. Extracted five bills. "Here. This should cover you for a while. Long enough to get clear, if you can take care of yourself as well as I think you can."

"I can't take that," she said immediately. Never would've thought she'd say that to a spandex-man—well, not for that reason.

"It's fine. I'm starting a new job soon. There are women's shelters, halfway homes—"

"A bunch of Jesus freaks," Virus said dismissively.

"Maybe they'll leave smaller bruises," he retorted. "You're a smart girl, Vi. You don't have to make a living this way. Take the money and get out."

"_I can't. _You saved my life once already, now you're going to give me charity? I'll have to start coming up with a new opinion on men."

"Take it," he reiterated, holding the money out. It was _right there. _"Go."

She grabbed it from him. Had it in her pocket before he could say a thing. "You're a born sucker, you know that? This could be up my nose in the next thirty minutes. You're acting like you're in love with me and I haven't even jerked you off."

"Uh… you're welcome?"

She hugged him. His body was tight and warm, the costume on her skin feeling like nothing she'd ever felt. Like it was from another world.

"A guy like you has got to have someone at home. That's the only reason you wouldn't go for me, you've got someone at home. Well, she better be giving it to you long and hard. Long and hard and every night."

* * *

><p>Virus left her apartment feeling good about herself. She had an old friend who'd gotten clean, married into a family of dentists. She could stay with her while she figured out her next move. Maybe she'd finally give modeling another try.<p>

What she hadn't counted on was the law of the jungle. Even when the predators had moved on, there were still scavengers in search of easy prey. This particular scavenger had almost been scared off by Spider-Man, but was too enamored of Virus to give her up so easily. Her features, her physique, the way she carried herself—it was all worthy of immortality.

He waited until the Spider had left. Then he finished prepping the syringe, and when Virus stepped out her door, it was merely a matter of injecting her.

If someone were to see them together without those five seconds of chemicals, they would only register a man greeting a female friend at her door, telling her to come with him, and the two leaving together as naturalistically as a prostitute accompanying a john.


	3. Chapter 3

Nisa took a busman's holiday back to police headquarters. The cab she hailed was almost as good as her old one. Before she'd set off, she'd e-mailed the recording to the police commissioner. Now she was wondering what to expect. Probably not a commendation. They'd want to keep things quiet. Connolly and Stern would be retired, she'd be given a tidy little promotion. That would be fine for her. She wasn't greedy.

She got off at One Police Plaza, walked up the steps to the great cylinder of police headquarters aimed at the sky like a rocket ship about to take off, went inside, went to the squad room entrance, and put her hand on the scanner like she'd already gotten used to. It flashed INVALID.

Nisa backed up, startled by the shrill sound of denial that drew the attention of the few suspects waiting to be processed, the detectives hanging around the front desk. The multipurpose scan-surface now became a video screen. She saw her superior, Lieutenant Dent, in a pre-recorded message. Her name was the only thing new; it didn't match his moving lips and it sounded and octave higher.

"NISA LOLITA, you have been terminated from the employ of the SCPD. Your access to the building is revoked and you are banned from the premises, starting now. Your last paycheck has been deposited into your bank account. Have a nice day, NISA LOLITA."

Then the screen was black. In the sudden reflection, Nisa could see two beat cops behind her. They showed her out of the building.

At the bottom of the steps, Nisa checked her phone. Every recording on its hard drive had been wiped. They'd hacked her.

She found herself wondering if Yellowcab still had an opening or if some Chechen brain surgeon had needed a job.

* * *

><p>Otaka was a slim little man who favored black. He hid from the world—under the brim of his wide hat, behind the lenses of his thick glasses. His accent turned his voice into a croak. Next to Max, he felt <em>otherwise—<em>the other man American, boisterous, normal, himself… special. He'd always felt that way. Not one or the other, but something else.

He slunk through Max's office like an insect that had wandered in out of the great outdoors, his coat sweeping around him. His hand emerged with the gel-lined membrane of a bionic hard drive. These days, they were not much larger than an old USB memory stick. The function was not dissimilar.

"The new personality construct," he said, limping his way to the renderer Max kept on hand. He plugged in the BHD, and the interplay of physicality and mental landscape was constructed into a holographic projection. It wasn't like a photograph, of course. To the untrained eye, the woman portrayed glitched and morphed like a bad TV signal—really, it was the construct acting up sans external stimuli. Once committed to vat-grown flesh and metal endoskeleton, the construct would read its full potential.

"_Brenda," _he announced, the name hitting his mouth not at all familiarly. "She's even better than anticipated, no?"

"She's a star!" Max proclaimed instantly, sweeping his hand through the hologram. Brenda giggled, awestruck at the size of his fingers, and feigned nervousness. "Your best yet, Otaka. A few more like that and we can open up our Vegas branch. You'll be paid as before."

Otaka ejected the BHD from the rendered, holding it away from Max, almost shielding it with his body. "She is not for sale. I desire to make a trade!"

"Otaka, Otaka, what's gotten into you?" Max held out his hand expectantly. When Otaka still clung to the BHD, he reached for his cigar and took it smoldering from his mouth. "We need each other, remember? You may create the personality constructs, but without the bodies me and Goldblum came up with, they'd just be chatbots! Worthless!"

"Goldblum… that addled fool. He has no vision. Placing my constructs within his machinery is like displaying a masterpiece within a frame of shit-!"

"You won't have to worry about him for much longer," Max assured him. "I've hired a new kid that makes Goldblum look like a piker. As soon as he's learned the ropes, we can move him up the chain."

"Why bother with another? Give me the rendering program. Anything Goldblum did, I can better!"

"Don't rock the boat, Otaka. Our mutual dependency makes us strong."

"Strong? You are a partner. I am nothing. I deserve better than being forced underground-"

Max's hands raised like a wave crashing against rocks. "That's impossible! You don't exist, remember? If the public knew you worked for us, they'd want to know what you do. If they knew what you did, we'd _all _be out of business!"

"Work for you? _Work for you? _You work for me! Providing a set of gloves for me to hide my bloody hands in! Work you lack the stomach for! Work you lack the brains for!"

Max was fed up. He snatched the BHD from Otaka, the little man spun away from the force of the pull. "I'll pay you double for this one, alright? Everything else is done for-hire. Enjoy your slice of the pie, Otaka. It's not the whole thing, but it's better than nothing."

* * *

><p>The superintendent of the Cybersex Arcade was Johann Goldblum, one of those nebbish guys who really worked the accent, sounded like a cartoon pig. He already had the security gate down when Peter arrived, and there was already a line forming, three guys joking around with punchlines that would make your average mother of two drop dead of a heart attack. Goldblum himself was running a quick broom over the floor. When he saw Peter, he unlocked the gate and pulled it up as far as it could go without the mechanism taking over and hauling it to the ceiling. Peter had to stoop to get through. Goldblum closed it up again and locked it once more.<p>

"Hey, why's he get to get in?" one of the scabs asked.

"Private party?" asked another.

"We got money, man, we got good paper money—this ain't Constitutional."

"He's da maintenance!" Goldblum said, poking a finger at them. "That is why he is allowed in! Shoo! Shoo! We will not open for another fifty minutes!"

One gave Goldblum the bird, another followed suit, the third was too spaced out to do anything. He just kinda stood there, looking average.

Inside, the 'bots were already lined up for inspection. Peter's tablet was synched to his wrist-mounted tablet. As he walked in front of each, he checked their read-out. One, 'Darlene', had either had a bout of rough sex too rough, or just been overworked. When he played her sample vocal—'Wanna come inside, cowboy?'—it sounded like he was playing dubstep. He reached into his toolbelt, took out a small scalpel, and made an incision in the Simskin at her throat. With pliers and tiny screwdriver, he went to work repairing her vocoder. He'd fix the epidermis later. It seemed to sag on her facial chassis anyway—too many slaps.

"Kid, you must have the best job in da city," Goldblum said, sweeping up nearby.

"How's that?" Peter asked.

"Working with these lovely ladies—up close and personal—like applying sunscreen to the Swiss bikini team."

Peter played the sample again. E—The thing was fried. He began unscrewing it. "They're not women, Goldblum. They're sex toys."

"Have you tried one? It's just like the real thing!"

"I'll take your word for it." The screws out, Peter began prying the vocoder free. It didn't want to come out. The mount was slightly bent. Peter got out his WD-40. "You think we're making the world a better place?"

Goldblum had wandered off, spritzing the walls and wiping them clean. Stains were the last thing you want in a place like this. "Is this about the United Way?"

"No. The johns—customers. You think we're training them to see women as objects or—are we giving them an outlet? If a guy's going to do this to a woman, or something shaped like a woman, is it better he does it to a machine? Or should he not be allowed to do it at all? Even think about it?"

No answer. Peter supposed he hadn't been expecting one. He got the mount back in shape, got the vocoder out. "Goldblum, where do you keep the spares? Goldblum?"

No response. Not even the spray from his bottle. Peter looked around. His spider-sense wasn't going off. Why did that worry him?

Nothing around him but women that weren't women—dolls. Mannequins, only they weren't selling clothes, they were selling… what? James Bond's sex life?

"Nobody here but us chickens," Peter said aloud. No laughter from the crowd. In the distance, he heard thunder clear its throat. A night like this, he wondered—if they were alive, what would they think of him? Patching them up like he did, would they appreciate it? Or was that like thinking of himself as a nice slavemaster?

He heard the click of high heels. Not a frightening sound—neither was a chainsaw, when it was being used on trees…

"Are any units active?" he demanded, raising his voice. Around him, the bots stood in stand-by mode. A parody of life—chests rising and falling, but that was all. No fidgeting, no preening, comatose patients standing idle. "Any active units, respond to my command now!"

Nothing. No one. Fucking fine. Peter cued his tablet to every bot present, sending wake-up commands to all of them. In a split-second, it was like going from the dressing room of a strip show to on stage. They primped, they preened, flashing thighs, breasts. None of which Peter looked at. "All units, identify any presence in the vicinity besides myself."

As one, they turned and pointed—giggling, whispering innuendos, nudging each other like they were alerting each other to the big secret of his masculinity. Everything had to be seductive…

Pulling a wrench from his belt, Peter went in the direction of their pointed fingers. Darkness swirled in front of his face. He took out his phone, lit up its screen, and still nearly tripped over Goldblum's body.

* * *

><p>Nisa took only one thing from her brief employ as a police intern: a scanner. She put it in her cab, where it annoyed just about every passenger she picked up. Still, she was the first to hear the report of an assault at the Cybersex Arcade. Someone had broken in and taken out the super. The weird part was, there wasn't a mark on him. He was just… blank.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

The cops came, and the ambulances, and the press. Peter talked some to the cops, some to the EMTs, and not at all to the reporters. They found part of the security grid shut off. Either someone was a really good hacker or someone knew the code. Peter didn't know which was scarier.

As the police canvassed the area, Peter got a call from Max. He'd been expecting that. Got the usual harassment, like it was his fault, Max wanting to know why he'd gotten the cops involved, Peter wanting to know what else he was supposed to do, Max finally saying fine, come back to headquarters, we'll talk there.

Peter wanting to know why it was that Max didn't seem surprised, hearing that someone had wiped Goldblum's brain.

He locked up the Arcade—another shouted compromise by Max, who'd wanted to open it back up, but there was no way Peter was sticking around the place with Goldblum a headcase. Outside, some reporters were still shooting B-roll. Peter ignored him, scanning the street for a cab. He'd been expecting to work a longer shift, catch the bus home. He spotted that shade of yellow that was only used to mean school buses or go fast, darted between two parked Coupes, and pulled open the backseat. "Hey, you taking fares?"

The sign was off, but maybe the Parker luck was finally about to turn. The girl nodded at him. Cute thing, Hispanic, bit of a Brooklyn accent: "Might as well. Hop in. Where you headed?"

And just like that, the other backdoor was opening, a leggy black woman piling in beside him. "M&G head office, Level 1, Block A, Suite 46," Virus said.

"Vi—how'd you know all that?" Peter asked, not sure what she was doing here, not sure why she was pinging some button in the back of his head.

"I know everything about you," Virus said, as the cab took off, its hover-tires spooling out smooth acceleration. The driver was good—a nice, level ascent. "And I want to know more."

There wasn't much of a backseat in the cab, but she took up all she could while Peter crammed himself against the door. Virus laid on all fours like a cat clawing the carpet. She looked up at his face—her hand brushed his crotch—fingers outlined his cock. Peter thought of all the times she'd offered, all his flimsy reasons for refusing, whatever cosmic joke had spun them back together while he wasn't in costume and she wasn't a hooker anymore. Was she?

She bent her head down, brushed her lips over the fabric of his pants. He felt himself throb. Watched as her fingers undid his fly—her warm hand inside his pants—fingers scratching through his underwear, looking for the opening—then her fingertips on his prick, sending an electrical surge straight down to his balls. He gritted his teeth; her fingers curled. She had him in her hand now. She stared up at him, her eyes curiously blank. A doll's or a shark's. She watched his reaction as her fingers went up and down, her thumb went across…

"I'm going to take your cock out and get a nice, long look. Then I'm going to kiss it. Would you like that, Peter?"

"How do you know my name?" some vestige of Peter's reason asked.

"I told you, I know everything about you. Everything about everyone who works at M&G." She bent lower, her bodysuit cut so deep that he could see almost the entire swelling curve of her cleavage. She took him out of his pants and her hot breath blew all over him. "Look, Peter. Look down here. It's leaking. It wants to come. It wants to come right in my mouth."

* * *

><p>Nisa felt herself getting horny. She felt her panties getting wet like drop after drop of boiling water was being dripped onto her crotch. She felt her nipples cutting against the cups of her bra. She felt her clit stiffly begging to be touched. She heard her fare groan, his voice becoming low and gravelly.<p>

"You're good…"

"I'm the best," Virus replied. Then she started to gurgle and Nisa instinctively knew that her mouth was wrapped around Peter's cock.

It wasn't the first time someone had fucked in the backseat of her cab. If she wasn't too hard up for a fare, she'd pull over and kick them out. Her passengers weren't generally the kind of people who she'd want to see fucking. But the guy was so handsome, and that girl was downright beautiful…

Nisa found herself looking into the rear-view mirror, but not at traffic.

His cock was huge. She'd seen a few pictures online, and a very few in person, but nothing had—or maybe could—prepare her for the sight of an enormous rod, its root thick and gorged with blood, ready to start shooting at any minute. His knob was fat and purple, when it wasn't in Virus's mouth, and Nisa could see it oozing clear fluid freely.

If only Virus were naked too, the view would be just perfect.

* * *

><p>Virus jerked on Peter's cock. She worked it from side to side, slapping it against her cheeks, her nose, her chin as she jacked it off, taunting herself with it, then she'd glided the whole thick hot thing into her mouth, her throat. All the way. Peter watched it disappear into her lips five times. He didn't know if he could see it vanish anymore without coming. All his power was in his balls; they pounded like church bells. When he felt her fingers squeeze his balls, pump them into the warmness of her palm, he gritted his teeth hard. It did no good at all.<p>

He exploded in her sucking mouth, Virus pulling back slowly, still sucking as he bombarded the inside of her cheeks. When her mouth came free, he kept coming, pumping gobs of hot jism over her face like white camouflage. She took the marking serenely, only moving to lick her lips. Her tongue was a pink as hot as a sunset.

Then her mouth was against his, her tongue between his lips with a metallic tinge. Peter felt a sharp, frozen pain and as everything went dark, he thought that this was why men didn't like being kissed after they got a blowjob.

* * *

><p>Nisa caught sight of the fireworks show—a flash of blue that turned her rear-view mirror silver, the rest of the cab underwater. Peter was shaking and Virus was still as a statue, then she was pulling away from him with a click, her tongue retracting into her mouth, Peter ashen-faced, blank-eyed.<p>

Nisa pulled off the hover-lane onto the nearest rooftop—it wasn't even cleared for landings. She skidded to a stop, almost hitting a pigeon coop, and turned back around to see Peter slumping to the side, Virus disappearing out the door. She watched the prostitute run to the parapet and jump right off. By the time she'd unbuckled her seatbelt, gotten out of the car, and ran after her, either the building she'd landed on had the fastest clean-up crew in existence, or that hooker had managed to survive a forty-story drop.

Nisa went back to Peter. He was starting to drool. She waved her hand in front of his face. His eyes let it pass without comment.

"Okay, good news, I think I found the chick who aced Goldblum… maybe she has something to do with the disappearances…" She quickly checked Peter's wallet, finding a keycard for Max & Goldblum Robotics—creators of the Cybersex Arcade. She patted him down again, feeling something under his clothes, and unbuttoned his shirt.

On his chest, a black spider stared at her. In his pocket, a red and blue mask.

"Oh crap…"


	5. Chapter 5

Nisa liked Spider-Man. She liked him a lot. Thirty thousand cops in the city, so few of them did their job with any professionalism, any compassion, but there was Spider-Man. Just some guy. Dressed in red and blue and helped people, just because he could. She didn't know why your average patrolman couldn't do what he did, a fraction of what he did, when he did it for free.

So she didn't want to let a hospital have him. Not find out his identity and put his family in danger. She buttoned his shirt back up and wiped his chin off and laid him down across the backseat. She kept the keycard with her. She started back for the address Virus had given her. M&G Robotics. It all had something to do with them.

Half an hour later, taking a shortcut between skyscrapers, she'd made it to M&G Robotics. She landed on the roof, checking on Peter again before she left. His pulse was steady, his breathing deep and even. She left him to his—sleep—and let herself into the building through the roof access, using Peter's freshly laminated keycard.

It was almost deserted except for a night crew of janitors, busily jabbering over each other as they cleaned up. One had the unfortunate task of binning the rat corpses the exterminators had missed. Nisa walked right through them, head held high like she was supposed to be there, and none of them questioned her.

In all of M&G headquarters, she'd only noticed one lit office, on the seventh floor. She decided it would have to do. She went down the stairwell, arriving to the sound of a late-night jazz band earning their keep on the radio. She poked open the door and saw the deserted office block, the corner office lit up and blaring out music through the open door. Inside, Bobby 'Max' Maxwell was on the phone.

"Damnit, Parker, pick up! Where the hell you gotten to? Argh!" He slammed the phone down in its cradle, took a deep puff on his cigar, stubbed it out, then quick-drew the handset and dialed again.

That was when Virus walked by Nisa, her bodysuit shooting high up her hips and supporting her breasts. Dried cum ran over her face like war paint. She reminded Nisa of a Terminator, walking right by her, face front, eyes dead—like she'd been wound up with a key. But as she approached Max's office, her legs drew out into a sultry slink. She wiped off her face and began to jiggle with each stride. Even Nisa felt her eyes go to Virus's hydraulic ass as she stepped through Max's door. She got out her phone and pressed record. Whatever was happening, she would catch it in the act.

Max saw her. "Wha—wait, how'd you get up here, gazongas? What are you doin' here?"

"I've got something for you," Virus drawled, falling to all fours on Max's desk. "And I think you've got something for me too…"

She grabbed him by the lapels. Her mouth fell open. She jerked his to her's—this time Nisa caught it on tape. Her tongue retracting from a hard steel core, something insectile and electric. As soon as she kissed Max, he went slack. Virus held the kiss for a few moments, her body swaying—then she let him drop. Max sprawled across his own desk, his eyes wide open. Blank.

_Guess he's not a suspect, _Nisa thought to herself, slipping back from the stairwell door. It closed automatically.

Squeaking.

A split-second later, she heard high heels clicking toward her. Nisa ran down the stairs. Next second, the door was off its hinges. A second after that, arms were wrapped around her midsection, as firm as the safety harness on a roller coaster. Nisa dug her nails into the bare flesh, drawing blood from the left arm—the right arm, her nails tore through into cold metal.

The metal arm was enough to hold Nisa tight as Virus's organic one plucked her phone away. Nisa was able to look over her shoulder far enough to see Virus tuck it into her bra. "You're soft," Virus said, with a dreamy _savoir faire_. "Want some?"

Nisa laughed nervously. "I don't know," she said, thinking with an odd desperation that it was good to know she was equally hopeless with all sexes.

Virus chinned her sweater's neckline out of the way, kissed her where her shoulder joined her throat. Nisa felt a shiver go through her but wasn't afraid.

"Are you sure?" Strong hands cupped Nisa's breasts from behind—her nipples jolted to life like they'd gotten a jump-start from a car battery. Nisa felt her excitement rush through her swelling head straight down to her cunt.

"Very nice," Virus said, her voice soothing, honeyed. Her irresistible hand ran briskly up the slope of Nisa's throat, took her head and twisted it to her shoulder, where Virus's warm lips could meet hers. As they kissed, Virus's hands roamed her body, dipping into her pocket—slipping her ID card out of her wallet and coming up with it.

"Lolita, huh?" Virus mused. "Sure you're old enough for this?"

Nisa found herself nodding. She guessed that was enough. The next thing Nisa knew, she was against the wall, Virus's near-nude body trapping her, big breasts almost in her face, that all-powerful hand down in her leggings.

Nisa panted out gasp after gasp as Virus held her tight, dappled her finger tips along her labia, then worked a finger inside. "Mmmm… you kept it nice and warm for me, didn't you?"

Nisa's legs spread. A groan that didn't sound like her came out of her throat as her sex grew wet, like Virus's long finger was spraying her down. She felt her clit caressed forcefully, like Virus was demanding she feel pleasure. Virus's other hand came away, freeing Nisa, but she held still as the neckhole of her sweater was jerked down over one breast. She only wore a tanktop over it. Virus bit right through the thin fabric, sending thrills shooting down Nisa's belly to collide with the friction coming off her clit. Nisa was thrilling, struggling, dizzy with what was happening to her. If it weren't for her distant anxiety over the fatal kiss she'd just seen Virus deliver, she would've come already.

Virus's head lifted. She'd left a wet patch over Nisa's breast, her nipple throbbing through its transparency. She looked down at Nisa's hips bucking with the masturbation they were being given, seemingly as enthralled with the sight as Nisa was. "You're one hot bitch," she said, her voice cooing out of her.

Nisa just rocked her fucked cunt on Virus's fingers, her nipples burning—one from the attention it had gotten, the other from being deprived. Her sex was ready. She felt an orgasm on its way, better than anything the vibrator in her purse could give her.

Suddenly Virus capped Nisa's soft lips with her own, a soft smooth tongue forcing her mouth open. Nisa took the hot kiss despite all her brain's warnings. Her heart was thumping madly. Her cunt was flowing. Her clit was on fire.

Then Virus stopped as suddenly as she'd begun. Her finger was gone, her lips were gone—"Wish I could get you off with a warning, sweetcakes"—then she was gone.

Nisa stood there for a few moments, feeling her lips tingle, the cold air on her suddenly vacant body almost arousing her all over again. The lap of her leggings was wet and she was practically topless. Her body moved stiff, robotically as she straightened out her pink sweater.

_That was better than Disneyland, _she thought to herself. And if she made it back up to her cab on the roof, she just might be able to follow Virus wherever she was headed.

And if Virus had actually finished her off, maybe she would've been clear-headed enough to remember her ID card, dropped on the stairwell floor. An hour later, after a janitor had found Max's body and called the police, Stern and Connolly were presented with it by a CSI.

"Look who's still causing trouble," Stern growled. "Put out an APB. I think we've got our killer."


	6. Chapter 6

"Calling all cars, calling all cars, we have a possible suspect in the serial disappearances. Nisa Lolita, female taxi driver, cab number 0846273. She is a known mental terrorist, shoot on sight."

Nisa thumped the scanner off, giving the eye to Peter in the passenger seat. "Those stupid dicks! I didn't do it!"

Peter nodded. Or at least he slumped forward when Nisa stopped at a red light. Nisa looked down again to where Virus was stalking down the sidewalk, oblivious to the cab following her in the hover-lanes far above. Nisa wished she would hurry up and show up wherever the hell she was going. If this tail didn't pay off fast, she'd have the cops crawling up _her_ tail.

Virus walked into the bad part of town—the part of town even the cops avoided. At least Nisa wouldn't have to worry about her frame-job here. Virus got plenty of looks, but something in her gait and the way she carried herself put off anyone from trying here. Finally, she stepped through the doorless doorframe of an abandoned building, with the graffitied gang signs of the Brotherhood advising anyone with the slightest street smarts to keep out. Nisa set her taxi down nearby and hid Peter in the footspace, wondering if he could feel the affectionate rub she gave his cheek.

"Don't worry, guy. I'll find some way to reverse this."

She locked the car behind her and followed Virus inside. The building was just as badly dilapidated inside as out, the walls ruptured where their copper wiring had been stripped out. Virus's footsteps echoed down into a boiler room. Nisa took the stairs one lonely step at a time, not descending a foot until she heard Virus take five steps into the distance. Near the bottom of the steps, she saw a green glow up ahead. That was when it hit her—if you wanted to hide something, you didn't chain it up, put a fence around it, run a retinal scan on everyone who came near.

No, you put it in the basement of a place no one would go into anyway, then you paid off the local street gang for good measure. That's how you kept a whole laboratory hidden.

In the middle of all the stuff that Nisa would need two college degrees to name, Virus was lying on a workbench—a recess for her, tools spread around where she wasn't face-up. She wasn't asleep. She was switched off. Made sense for a cyborg. Nisa crept up to her. She could see her phone, still stuffed in Virus's cleavage. She reached for it, moving Virus's breasts aside—they felt cold and dead without whatever simulacra she had being active. Like pushing jellyfish out of the way. Their leaden weight resisted her—some servo inside her not switched on, not giving her body the illusion of life, not making her flesh shift the way it was supposed to. It was like trying to pose a statue…

Nisa heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She muscled Virus's breasts aside, leaving them splayed open like Play-Doh, and grabbed her phone. "Well done, my pet project. Well done. All in one night!" She ran for a hiding place, seeing a door off to the side. She threw herself through it as Otaka stepped into the green light of his lab. "The boy, Parker… the absent-minded professor, Goldblum… the businessman, Max… with all their knowledge sucked into your database, 'em-and-gee' will falter and fold, while Otakacorp rises from their ashes like the phoenix of lore!"

Yep. He was Looney Tunes. No one was sane enough to use the phrase 'of lore' in a sentence. Nisa turned to look for another hiding place, in case he came into the room she was in, and stifled a scream.

They were stored all around her, each in a protein-nest of nurturing membranes, like body bags after a natural disaster. But it wasn't all IV bags and catheters. It was their brains. Something was wired into their brains.

_The missing hookers. Packed in like meat at a supermarket._

Nisa started another video recording on her phone, running it over the missing hookers, then through the chicken-wire window in the door. Otaka was examining Virus, attentively fixing the damage Nisa had done to the false skin over her bionic arm with a fleshy spray. Then he moved the workbench like a gurney—Nisa had to crane herself around to follow his progress—taking Virus to a big console against the wall. He strapped Virus in and swiveled the workbench vertical, carelessly dumping various tools to the ground. With a few keystrokes, the console grew a large probe. He rotated the workbench again, sweeping Virus down so that her mouth opened and she seemed to swallow the probe.

_Couldn't he make that a little less phallic? _Nisa wondered. _Look who I'm talking about—the runner of a wayward home for hookers._

On the console's vast screen, an upload was in progress. A trio of gesticulating icons showed up, labeled Parker, Max, and Goldblum. Nisa recognized the frenzy of computerized motion from M&G's press releases. Personality constructs. They weren't synthetic. They'd been ripped right out of someone's head!

Below the computer, like the drop in a soda machine, three BHDs were dispensed. Otaka collected them, lavishing attention on each as he dropped them into his pockets. "Look, Virus—our first-class tickets to a new life. How would you like to be secretary, yes? An excellent use of your talents, I should think…!" He tapped Virus's cold cheek with a laugh—Nisa thought he enjoyed it more with his fingerprints sticking in her skin like a brand. "The next time you see me, my dear, I will be the wealthiest man in this whole stinking city!"

Nisa watched him go. _Exit the mad scientist. _She looked around again, this time following the wires plugged into the prostitutes. They all led into something that looked like a giant network router, with several BHDs plugged in. Nisa pulled one. It had a holographic seal—a woman's face and name embossed on it. Two faces, actually, each visible depending only on which angle you looked at it from. You moved it ono way, you saw the 'real' face. No make-up, a few acne scars, a crooked nose. Nisa looked over the coma ward. She saw a matching face.

Then she moved the BHD the other way. The face became idealized—almost unrecognizable. A sexy smile, a sultry look through eyeshadow, no scars, no marks, not even a hint of the African-American blood the original had. It was the face of a porn star. _Or a sexbot._

The BHD beeped. Nisa turned it over and saw a progress bar on the back of the seal. It was at 99%. Her mind leapt—Otaka was using the hookers to create personality constructs, but they weren't stable. He had to continuously 'recharge' them with the real thing. That's why he was keeping them alive, but on ice. He needed something real to objectify. Nisa plugged the BHD back in; it jumped back to a hundred percent. She couldn't understand the science, but she got the idea. All this: it was just prostitution with a cover of legality. All this tech, all this money, just to sell women.

Hell, to package women. It was like buying brand-name cereal instead of the store-brand. You weren't paying for the cereal, you were paying for the box. For the cartoon mascot on the cardboard.

She searched the router, finally coming up with one that read Virus. Whatever Otaka had done, there had to be a way to reverse it. When he came back, she wanted the real deal in that cybernetic freakshow he'd turned Virus's body into.

Nisa scrambled back to the window, checked the lab to see if Otaka had come back—he hadn't—and opened the door. He hadn't password-locked his computer on the way out. Nisa plugged Virus's BHD in and accessed it. A window opened with a swirl of thoughts and silent sounds playing, the most recent one a pan over Spider-Man's body. Virus knew Spider-Man? How did those two—oh. Obviously. Nisa looked over the file options. First things first, she to get that probe up. Which button had Otaka pushed? Nisa tried one, tried another—nothing.

She looked back at Virus. "Don't suppose you could give me a hint…?"

Virus was up, pulling free of the workbench's straps, cornering Nisa against the console. Shit, one of the buttons must've turned her on. Nisa turned back, jabbing another one, and heard the probe beep inside its casing. Virus was suddenly behind her, spinning her around, hauling her up onto the console. Nisa felt the buttons digging into her ass as the probe extended, between her spread legs. Virus looked down at it, her frozen face somehow conveying a bit of amusement at the sight of Nisa's would-be phallus, before she looked back up at the intruder. Obviously, she'd been programmed for such an eventuality—the exact same programming Nisa would give her in Otaka's shoes. Disable the trespasser and absorb their memories for interrogation later. Virus's tongue peeled back to reveal the crackling prong of her weapon.

It was only a mad rush of insight that saved Nisa. She thought of Virus sucking Peter off and _then _absorbing him, of mind-wiping Max right away, of playing with her before letting her go. She thought something of the real Virus had to be left behind, mixed in with whatever programming Otaka had given her. And apparently it responded well to her. Thinking fast, she flung herself onto Virus's gorgeous body and bit through her bodice, into the nipple of one heavy breast. She was rewarded with a moan of pleasure.

"Oooh," Virus crooned, "wanna finish what we started?" She pulled down her bodysuit, presenting her naked breasts. Nisa bit down on the other nipple, feeling the caress of Virus's soft flesh on her face. Her sex heated up, like no time at all had passed since Virus had fondled her in the stairwell. As Nisa palmed one tit, devoured the other, Virus stripped off the remainder of her bodysuit. _Christ, _Nisa thought, _she's really built. In all senses of the word._

Nisa started to push down her leggings and Virus finished the job, pulling them off her, _ripping _her panties off. Their naked sexes came together, both women gently fucking against the other. Nisa felt Virus's pelvis bone drag from her cunt to her clit, felt her own hot honey in Virus's well-groomed bush. She moaned. Virus gasped.

Virus grasped Nisa's soft buttocks, holding their loins tightly together, the cool metal of the probe between them, cutting through their warm pleasure with a perfect spice. Nisa stared into Virus's eyes, registering pleasure, wonder, even a little nervousness.

"We can come like this," Nisa breathed, rolling her legs around Virus's hips, moving faster. She was wildly excited by Virus's body. Muscled, but not like a man—not hard. _Firm. _Her body flowed through Nisa's clawing hands, the cyborg rocking, crooning in pleasure, angling for a kiss that Nisa wouldn't give her. Instead, Nisa kissed and sucked Virus's big nipples like she was obsessed with them, hearing herself whimper in distressed desire. She felt Virus's big, voluptuous body writhe like a living flame inside the furnace her body provided, pushing her higher, higher…

Until Virus gripped her by the hair and held her back, paralysis-still. When she spoke, Nisa could hear her weapon clicking against her teeth. "Not a bad way to go: cumming." And she moved in with her electric tongue sparking.

Maybe she wasn't expecting what Nisa did next. Maybe she wanted it. Nisa grabbed her by the head and forced her down to the probe at her crotch. It slotted right down her throat, and over her shoulder, Nisa saw a new prompt come up on the computer. REVERSE?

She slammed her hand on the button. Then she reached down and rubbed her clit as Virus's mind was downloaded back where it belonged. This time she wouldn't be left high and dry.

* * *

><p>Virus came to between Nisa's naked legs, watching the girl come right in front of her. "Wha…?"<p>

Nisa looked down at her in horror, realizing the reversal had finished far quicker than she'd expected. It was too late to stop. She froze and ecstasy claimed her body, throbbing throughout her flesh, her cunt fluttering in spasms wet enough to drown the fire in her sex. Virus saw Nisa squirt, her flowing cunt oiling Virus's face from chin to nose. Then she was done, and Nisa slumped, victorious but defeated, against the view-screen.

Virus gave a tinkling laugh. "Where did I sign up for that wake-up call and how can I get it again?"

* * *

><p>Otaka didn't get back until long after Nisa had explained the situation. This time, Nisa doubted a little breastplay would change Virus's mind. Or any of the other women they'd restored. She did insist on getting the three remaining BHDs from Otaka before the women got started. Peter was blameless, at least, and the other two the cops could have. Spider-Man probably wouldn't approve of what they did to Otaka, but that was okay. By the time she got him downloaded back into his body, it was all over.<p>

"Who—what?" He gave his head a shake. "What happened?"

"Let me put it this way. You got your brains fucked out."

* * *

><p>The women went their separate ways, some swearing to get into a new line of work, some self-aware enough to know they wouldn't. Peter regarded what was left of Otaka almost sadly. Nisa guessed when you were a superhero, you even had to feel bad for the villains.<p>

"So what are we gonna tell the cops?" she asked, looking from Virus to Peter. "I already tried blowing the lid off this once. The commissioner covered it all up."

"What you need is someone in the press to get the story out," Peter said.

"You know anyone we can trust?" Virus asked.

"I might." Peter took the phone from Nisa. "Crap."

"What is it?"

"I'm gonna have to ask for my old job back."

* * *

><p>The scandal had everything. Sex. Prostitution. Corruption. Even a sci-fi angle.<p>

Even with the rancor that Jameson had taken Peter's departure with, he had to take the photographer back with a scoop like that. After the story broke, it was a lot like Nisa had first imagined it. There was a lot of sound and fury; little meaning. Connolly and Stern were retired, no benefits, no pension. No jail time, either, but getting to spend five months sucking down shots before they either died in a car accident to fell off a building wasn't such a miscarriage of justice. And Nisa got enough attention from the story to open her own detective agency. It wasn't quite being police, but she doubted any cop in the city had a partner as good as hers.

Not that Virus was overjoyed by her circumstances. Being able to thrown a grown man across a football stadium was nice, but she missed the simplicity of watching a sunset. No reticles, no sensor displays—just the sun.

The better part of her was medical waste now. Otaka had rebuilt her top-of-the-line. Some days, it was hard for her to tell where the machine ended and she began.

"You think someone can love a machine?" she asked Nisa as they waited around the office for the next case, for Peter to run a check-up on her systems—for whatever came next.

"C'mon, Vi… look out at the city. Everyone's plugged in to a machine, typing on a machine, looking at a machine—the machine might as well be inside as out. What's the difference anymore? Everyone's just like you."

Virus rubbed at her artificial arm. She didn't know if a baseline human could feel the metal endoskeleton, but she could. "The metal inside me… it feels so cold."

Nisa kissed her cheek. "So let's heat it up. Peter'll be here soon—let's see if he can tell the difference between two real things."

Virus grinned, reaching over to grope Nisa's breast. "Don't you mean four real things?"

Nisa couldn't even tell which hand she had used.


	7. Of Fate Part I

Every cabbie knew the way to The Roost Social Club. It was on the razor's edge between El Barrio and Uptown, the high-rises where the Latin population went to work and the slums where they returned after a long day. And on the way back, a lucky few got into Raven's club.

Not that it was a social club. Somehow, even though liquor was legal—it had to be, in a town like Spice City—the place was a speak-easy. It just seemed wrong to call it anything else. The live band, the atmosphere, the dancing, the dresses, the suits; if you made your way to Raven's Roost, you came to a speakeasy. Spice City had a lot of history. Walk through the right doorway, you stepped back in time. In this case, to a place where, play your cards right, you'd have so much fun it felt illegal. Raven always had something new, every night.

Tonight, and for the past several months, it'd been Mano Mantillo. He led the band, put his soul into the bongos he played, the beat pumping out into his bandmates, their instruments, the music, the crowd—the dancing. It was infectious. And just looking at the man, you could tell it could only come from him. His zoot suit was sharkskin, as flashy as his skin was swarthy, a sheen of sweat covering him as soon as he touched the bongos. He wiped it away with his neck-slung bandanna in-between sets, the action revealing the golden crucifix on his toned chest. He wore no shirt under his suit jacket and vest. His face was handsome, his mustache as sharp as a stealth bomber's wings. With his looks and talent, he could have any woman he wanted. He often did.

For Mano, that made his eyes rove to the woman he couldn't have. Not that she needed the help.

Red commanded the dance floor like Mano commanded the music. It was crowded—_swollen _with a sexual jostle, limbs and loins, but Red stood apart. She'd been dancing for the last two hours, her crimson dress flashing around her like a pool of blood in water, flashing on long toned legs, slender arms, extravagant breasts. All bought and paid for by Big Vinnie. But on the dance floor, she could let herself go, writhe her hips, her whole body, expressing all the urges that smoldered just under the surface of her kept womanhood. With the rhythmic abandon of a belly dancer, she worked in counterpoint to the music, raising the tempo. The heat in the club approached a swelter.

Even Virus and Nisa noticed, seated at a table, the music working Virus's foot up Nisa's leg, an action Nisa allowed as she fondled her drink instead. Her lips going up and down on the straw, quite subtly.

"Looks like Mano's found someone to put his _manos _on," Nisa observed, watching the electric eye contact between bandleader and dancer. The number he tapped out was hot and urgent, almost hypnotizing Red into a private ecstasy. Just looking at her, Nisa's throat was parched and her limbs felt leaden.

"He better keep his hands to himself," Virus replied, not looking, her crystalline gaze only for her date. "That's Big Vinnie's girl. And if he watches her as close as he watches everything else he owns…"

Nisa was intrigued, but more so by the bead of sweat leaving a thin film on Virus's dark skin as it traced a path from the hollow of Virus's neck to her neckline. "I'm more interested in my girl at the moment. Let's dance. If Mano does piss off Big Vinnie, we might not get another chance to."

Virus smiled at Nisa, stealing her drink and knocking it back like a gulp of water. Then they were on the floor, emptying their heads of all but the beat and each other. Virus barely emerged from their private world to note the admiring glances, the men who would've paid dearly for her back when she was hooking—'single'. She didn't mind the attention. It gave her power, confidence, but she didn't need that either. She was operating on another plane of existence. Nisa's heated gaze on her breasts, moving freely under the thin covering of her muslin shirt, was rocket fuel. When those eyes shifted to hers, she felt like she could explode.

When the next song started, they went to the unisex bathroom. The one with the baby-changing station. It was a joke. You used either men or the women's toilets. The unisex was for something else entirely. The stalls did not have toilets. They had cots. The smell and heat of a stranger's sex was the price of admission. Virus knew that on this vinyl surface, people had come before her and people would come after, an automated spray of something antiseptically tart cutting into it like watered down liquor.

The beat kept going, pounding through the walls, crushing them together with constant, prodding touches. Virus's clit was better than the real thing, rubbing insistently inside Nisa's mouth like a piece of hard candy to be sucked on even as she ate Virus out. Nisa gave into it soon, lapping at it, a series of short needful kisses. She teased it into flickering hardness. Below her, Virus's face seemed like a part of Nisa's sex, a toy she had strapped on and let loose. Her nose was in Nisa's perineum, her lips just under Nisa's clit, eating away everything but the raw nerve endings that still tried to warn Nisa of her pleasurable doom.

Every drum solo felt like it rolled Nisa into a new sequence of her climax, every clench and throb building on top of the last, burning her from the inside, only letting in the raw fuel—the feelings at her mouth and cunt.

Virus could sense the barrage against Nisa's senses. She was proud of her work; Nisa could've paid her a fortune and this would still be her getting her money's worth. Even so, Virus let up—a little. "Don't come too much, partner. I'll have to charge you extra."

Nisa shivered against Virus's tingling pussy, knowing the pleasurable currency Virus took payment in. "For what? I think I'm still on the first one…"


	8. Of Fate Part II

"Peter, phone for you," Aunt May called up.

Peter dropped his tablet on his bed, the classified section flashing up like a hundred bits of anonymous hate. Experience he didn't have, pay he couldn't live off of. After losing his job at the Bugle, getting a hit at M&G had seemed like a godsend. Trust his luck that it went belly-up on account of Jack the Ripper being CEO. He needed a new job, fast, before his period of unemployment became a self-fulfilling policy. So he nearly bounded to his room's extension, yanking the phone off its hook and hearing the satisfying click of May hanging up a moment later.

"Hello?" he asked, wondering who wanted an interview with him. Stark-Fujikawa? Let it be Stark-Fujikawa…

"Was that your _grandma?" _Virus's sly tone, caustic as ever, insinuated itself against his eardrum.

"My aunt," Peter interrupted. Tried to interrupt.

"You live with your aunt?"

"I rent from her. I lost my job because of you two, remember?"

"You shouldn't work for cyber-pimps, Parker."

"They had great dental. What do you want, Virus?"

"Hey, it's _me, _remember?" She chuckled richly. "I'm all about what _you _want. And it sounds like you want a job."

"Let me guess; McDonald's is hiring."

"No. _Dumbo. _Me and Nisa have a case and we could use your expertise. It's enough money to be worth your while, even in a three-way split." Her voice dropped an octave. "You don't mind a good three-way, do you Parker?"

He ignored her. Easy to do when she couldn't see his fierce blush. "Is it me you want, or is it the guy in red and blue?"

"Oooh—decisions, decisions. Can I try both?"

"You know what I mean. SM isn't for hire. He's supposed to stand for something."

"Are you sure? I have a high budget. Maybe I could just hire the S—or the M, if it's not available."

"Ha, ha. Is Nisa there?"

"I can get her."

"Put her on." He heard a brief scuffle as the phone changed hands. "That you?"

"Yeah, it's me, Pete." Her voice always seemed honeyish to him, even when he knew she wasn't buttering him up. "Look, don't mind Vi, this is the real deal. And you might get a chance to fight some of that crime you think is so unhip."

"What's the catch?"

She paused. "Ever hear of Big Vinnie?"

"The crime lord? You want me to go up against _him_?"

"No, Pete. We're going to be working for him."

* * *

><p>In a city as bad as Spice City, crime didn't have to be subtle. So when they went to mob headquarters, they went to MOB headquarters—Modern Organization of Businesses. He met up with Virus and Nisa outside, Virus giving him a kiss, Nisa giving him a wink. Peter wiped his mouth off after. He never knew what to make of how affectionate they were.<p>

Inside, a people-mover took over for them. First step through the door and the floor started scrolling. The three of them stood in place as it carried them through ranks of cubicles buzzing with typing. A security camera on the wall made a highly audible noise as it swiveled to follow them; there was a speaker under it.

"Ah, Virus and Ms. Lolita." The voice was urbane, slickly rolling over its vocabulary. Peter recognized it from when Big Vinnie had gotten the key to the city. "This is the associate you said you required?"

_Play nice, Parker. _"Peter Parker, sir. I help out where I can."

Up ahead, another camera buzzed around to meet them. Now the voice came from its speaker. "Fine. It's your payment. Split it however many ways you like. Just so long as you get the job done."

"What job?" Peter asked, as the people-mover put them on an escalator that carried them up four stories. They passed a third camera that zoomed in on them, voice sliding from its speaker.

"You know Mano Mantillo, a player at one of my clubs? Unfortunately, he suffered an accident recently. His hands were severed at the wrists. I don't know all the details. Your job is simple. Retrieve the hands."

Peter looked at Nisa and Virus, who were looking as innocent as they could. "From… where?"

"From wherever they've gotten to. I've paid you enough money to fly first-class to Japan—go _there _if that's what it takes."

"I'm confused—" Peter started to say, but Nisa piped up.

"The hands—got chopped off—then got up—and started running around."

Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I know, right? Is that cool or what!?"

Peter turned to the next camera on their path. "You want us to find a pair of disembodied hands that are moving around of their own accord?"

The escalator deposited them onto another people-mover that pulled them away. "Implausible, I know. Mr. Mantillo has some bionic enhancements that are malfunctioning. They're quite expensive. Bring them back, reattach them, and you'll be paid well. I want them back on Mano's arms by Friday. There are a shitload of customers who want to see him play."

Peter scratched his head. "A pair of hands? You're sure?"

"I don't spend this kind of money on a whim. Here. Your payment." The conveyor belt streamed them into a room. Inside was just a table and a briefcase. After exchanging a glance with the ladies, Peter opened it. The root of all evil. Lots of it. "There'll be another briefcase, just as full, when you've completed your assignment. If you don't… there won't be. And my pitbulls will be well-fed."

Peter shrugged. "I'd hope they'd be well-fed either way. Pet ownership is a serious—"

Virus got his attention, drew her finger across her throat. Oh.

"Who did the enhancements?" Peter asked the nearest camera. "They might know something."

"Bruja the Witch. She's eclectic, but reliable. For what I'm paying you, hopefully you'll be able to find her on your own?"

Virus took the briefcase, holding it close to her perfect body. "We'll handle it. No problem."

"I should hope not. This conference is terminated. Enjoy a speedy leave-taking from my facilities."

Then the ground under them opened up and they were sliding down a chute, right back out to the front door.

* * *

><p>Peter dusted himself off. "Talk about gimmicky—! I suppose when you've settled for Big Vinnie as a nickname, you gotta stretch for a theme…"<p>

Nisa was with Virus, counting the money fast. "Peter, you can handle Bruja?"

"Yeah, sure. She's just one witch. You?"

"I'll go to Mano, see if he knows anything interesting."

"And I'll look for the hands the old-fashioned way," Virus said. "Beating feet."

"It's a big city," Peter said. "What do you think your chances are?"

"Men always have had a hard time keeping their hands off me. 'Cept you, loverboy."

* * *

><p>He might have been kaput at the Daily Bugle, but the fact department still there owed him a few favors. He got an address for Bruja easily enough—Apartment 247-B in Mendel High-Rises.<p>

Bruja answered the door naked but for a large Burmese python, slithering up one leg all the way to her shoulders. Peter's eyes charted her physique before he could think if he wanted to look. Just looking at her, he could tell she was an artist. Her lips didn't just cover her mouth, there were masterpieces on the subject of teasing. Her tongue, when it slipped over her lips, was a whip _cracking _on pleasure. Her breasts were monuments to arousal, her ass a promise of magnificent lust.

"I knew you were coming," she said, her voice wickedly accented. "Big Vinnie send you; you're Mistah Parker."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, however reluctantly. "He called ahead?"

"No," she replied in a parody of his affirmative. "Come in, _zarenyen_."

He followed her inside, keeping his eyes on her raven tresses, her purple hairband, her teardrop bead earrings. "You knew I was coming and you couldn't put on a shirt?"

Again she responded in kind. "How long you been working for BV?"

That rankled. "Not important." Inside, her apartment was like a jungle. Humidifiers steamed mist across the floor, merging with the masking tape that turned the electrical wires into creeping vines. At the far wall, there was a loa shrine—a computer with its tower in the shape of a wild-haired statuette, the monitor held in its outstretched arms. A fifth of bourbon and a smoldering joint in an ashtray bracketed the idol.

Great, Peter thought to himself. She was one of those—what did they call themselves? Technofarians? There was some dumb portmanteau for it—as if the Pope's cybermonks weren't bad enough.

"Vinnie says you did a job for him—Mano Mantillo's hands?" BV hadn't gone that far, but it was an easy assumption to make.

"Yes," Bruja crooned, "when Mano was a kid, his mother went to Big Vinnie. She had dreams for her baby. So they made a deal and Vinnie paid me _crazy_ money to ensure his future. All the music lessons in the _world _couldn't produce a pair of hands like I did."

The computer monitor turned on, showing schematics for a pair of cybernetic hands. Peter, though a bit put off by the haunted house routine, leaned in, ignoring the blood spilled on the keyboard. It was extremely sophisticated work—the 'hands' were nanofibers, coiled up to the size of the skeletal structure. Without any muscle or skin, they could move as adroitly as a surgeon's. The rest of the hands were 'gloves,' artificial fat that covered the actual bony prosthetics.

Peter was beginning to get the picture.

"And they're programmed to play music?"

The snake slithered off Bruja, hissing at Peter as it passed him. "They're _blessed _with the rhythm, Mistah Parker. I performed all the rituals, called on the _gris _of the internet—those hands be still connected to good ol' Mano. They're just doing what he would want. Making dat sweet dance-y music. Things gotta do what they meant for, hon."

"That explains everything," Peter said, unable to keep his sarcasm to a minimum.

"Not everything, sugah-hon." She glanced at him, heat from her gaze burgeoning sweat from his pores. "What's a nice boy like you doin' mixed up in this business? What do you care if Mano Mantillo gets his hands back on they wrists?"

"Guess I'm just nice like that."

"Don't have none to do with dem girls you running with? The hooker and the copper?" She advanced on him, Peter sidestepping out of the way. They circled each other, and as they did, Peter took a flat metal disc the size of a wingnut from his pocket. Behind his back, he pressed it onto Bruja's computer. It clung magnetically, already starting to sift through her files and upload them to Peter's own server. He always had been good with tech.

Bruja being a computer-witch or whatever made things both easier and more difficult. On the one hand, it was virtually assured that the information he needed would be somewhere on her system. On the other hand, there would be a lot more data than he had expected. His hack would need time to get it all; he needed to keep Bruja distracted until then.

"Virus and Nisa are friends of mine. I owe them a favor. They, uh, helped me get my head in the game."

"You a moth flapping 'round a fire, _zarenyen_, 'fraid to go in. They want more from you, but you afraid to give it to them. You lack _confidence."_

"I'm unemployed, I live with my aunt, and I know the name of all twenty-seven Doctor Whos. Yes, I'm neurotic. You have a keen grasp on the human psyche."

She hoed a thick laugh. "I know enough to know what you be needin', and it's not some fiddle about bionic hands. You didn't come here tonight for Mano Mantillo. You came to get—_confidence."_

"I came here for my friends."

"I'm touching you and you don't even know it." She maneuvered him against a bed he hadn't seen through the room's thick fog and closed in before he could side-step again, trapping him against a bedpost. "See? Moved you right where I want you. Just like the spirits. They sent you here to make a man out of a boy."

"I, ah, haven't heard any complaints there—"

"You haven't heard much of anything. I'm going to give you something to talk about."

Peter made a last-ditch effort to dissuade her. "That gonna cost me as much as it did Mano?"

"Nah. Only your soul, _zarenyen, _only yo soul…"

She took his hand and put it on her breast. It stayed there, cool and flaxen on the heft of her cleavage. She took his other hand, put it on the same breast, and he got the idea. He squeezed it gently. She gave him a smile and, since she wasn't pushing him away, Peter squeezed harder, until he felt her nipple grow hard in his palm. Bruja laughed when he lifted it up, as if weighting it, and then let it come back down to rest in its elegant sloping curve.

He grabbed her other breast; with one in each hand, he pressed them together and moved his face into the narrow valley he'd made. Rubbing his lips over the protruding nipples, sucking one into his mouth, tasting it, licking it, Bruja gasping as he gave it a thorough work-out. She fell to the bed, landing on her ass, and Peter followed her down, kneeling before her, sucking desperately at her breast like he wanted to devour it.

The steel-hard nipple slipped out of his mouth finally, warm and wet with saliva—Peter pulled her against his body, resting his cheek on the soft pillow of her cleavage as he looked downward, at his hand traveling under her body. Bruja felt his fingers combing through her thick pubic hair, down to the opening that had been waiting impatiently for him. His slender fingers ran readily over her lips, getting wet, rolling the pads of his fingers and the heel of his hand over her cunt. He felt it get warmer, wetter, and when he looked up at her, her features were wrinkled in pleasure. He pushed his fingers inside her; Bruja noisily sucked in breath.

The bed creaked as she spread her legs wide, opening her pussy, letting the room's light caress it. Peter looked down again, eyes covering the wet folds of satiny flesh, his fingers exploring, experimenting. He touched her inner lips, her vulva, her clit, marking the different feelings, the pleased reactions that varied in intensity. He found a sort of ridged spot inside Bruja, and when he ran his fingertips over it, Bruja crooned and panted and dropped down onto her back. Her legs spread even wider.

Peter climbed on top of her, unzipping his pants. After a little rustling, his cock jutted out between them. It was young and powerful and Bruja thought she could hang a side of meat from it without having it touch the floor. Her cunt felt cool in the open air; she wanted something hot inside it. The soft hills of her chest cushioned him as he lay atop her, nipples dragging across his chest as he moved over her, until his cockhead found her warm place. Then he was inside her.


	9. Of Fate Part III

Mano's apartment was small but beginning to be well-appointed; big technological widgets waiting to be turned on, taken out of the box or even to get their shrink-wrap removed. Nisa guessed it was only a matter of time before he moved to a bigger place, but that was on hold now.

He laid in bed, toned arms tapering to abrupt endings in blunt bandages. Nisa recognized the woman tending him—Red Beans—BV's woman. They exchanged a look and just like that, it became a shared secret.

"I was gonna pay that fucker," Mano wept, his arm muscles tensing and clenching, but the bandage-wrapped stumps refused to move. "I was gonna pay him!"

"Mr. Mantillo?" Nisa said, nervousness making it a question. "I'm Nisa Lolita, I'm a private detective. My agency and I are looking for your missing hands—"

"Missing!" Mano sat up, his eyes bloodshot red. "They ain't missing, puta! They were taken!"

"Maybe you want to start from the beginning?" Red suggested, her hand on Mano's thigh.

"Yeah—yeah, fine—you're gonna get them back, aren't you? I need my hands, mamacita, I need 'em!"

"We're going to find them," Nisa assured him. "We haven't left a case unsolved yet."

Of course, Big Vinnie was the first person to hire them.

"It was those three Mob fucks," Mano gritted out. "Rocco, Stevie, and Paco. I missed an appointment with BV, so they picked me up between sets. Tried to scare me, _me, _pendejo."

_Terse words of confrontation, the three sizing him up, sniffing for fear. Either they found too much or not enough. Muscles piling onto him, holding him still for handcuffs to lock in place, his body fighting incoherently, impossibly with three men barreling him along. The trunk of their car opening wide like a shark's jaws…_

"That big ape Stevie, with the scrap metal prosthetics, he kept looking at my hand—kept looking at 'em, like a freak! They said because I missed the last delivery, they were gonna take my hands for payment. They were bluffing, man, _lying…_"

_Stevie holding his bound hands down on the table, Paco with the machete. Stevie's cheap hands, war veteran hands, couldn't even feel, could hardly close, just rusty metal but he stroked his drummer's hands with them, like he was in love with them, like he could feel the perfect calluses from years of beating calfskin…_

"I stood up to them, you know, _fuck you back, _because what were they going to do? My hands make more money for BV in a month than they do in a year! Then Stevie just went psycho—"

_"Fuck you, man, you arrhythmic maricon, you cut my hands off, Big Vinnie'll clip your nuts. Try it! Cut 'em off! I dare you, two left-foot-fuckers—"_

"He grabbed the blade."

_"Stevie, what're you doing?"_

"I saw his eyes roll back in his head, man, like a shark's—"

_The machete flashing down, thudding into the wood—surely it had missed, he couldn't feel anything, bluffing, fuckers were bluffing, but when he pulled his arms away, his hands stayed there, glued to the table while the rest of him was unmoored, now connected only by blood…_

"Then they started moving… one jammed fingers into Paco's eyes, all the way to his brain, the other crushed Rocco's throat. Stevie ran—I tried to run after him, but I fell down in the street. Someone called an ambulance. I woke up in the hospital. When I went back, the hands were gone. The blood trail only went a couple blocks…" Mano's pain wasn't far below the surface. It bubbled up quickly, erupting in a scream that made Red jump. "That was gonna be my last delivery! I was gonna move somewhere new, start fresh!"

Red petted his hair. "Shh, just relax, baby. They gonna find them."

Nisa nodded frantically.

"You better find 'em quick, chica! My hands are like me, they gotta have the music, they gotta _play!"_

* * *

><p>Walking the streets of El Barrio, Virus almost wished she were still a hooker. She got enough stares that she should've charged admission. No hands, though. Her phone rang. She answered it.<p>

"Keeping it warm for me, lover?"

"Keeping it something," Nisa replied. "I just got done talking to Mano. I think he was running drugs for BV."

"That would explain why he's so deadest on finding those things. No one plays the bongos _that _well. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Not that I think he's an expert in disembodied hands, but for what it's worth, Mano thinks his mitts are gonna—try to play music."

Virus nodded. She was a prostitute who'd been given cybernetic killbot upgrades. She tried to keep an open mind. "I'll check the music stores. What about Peter, you hear from him?"

"I think he's still pumping Bruja for information."

* * *

><p>Peter held himself inside Bruja, feeling her press in on his member on all sides, squeeze him, every part of him. She was like water made flesh, warm and soft, holding to him like a glove. And her soft arms around his back, legs around his hips, breasts under his chest, all of her this—island he had been beached upon, or some kind of portal for him to pour all his energies and lust into. It was pure pleasure.<p>

He lifted and lowered his hips, Bruja's cunt grabbing at his manhood, pulling at him to make every stroke faster than the last. He obliged her, until he was driving sounds from her mouth with every thrust—high-pitched "oh"s rolling between her fast, panting breaths. Her back arched, throwing her hips up to swallow as much of his body as she could. She was coming.

_"Ranpli mwen;, ranpli mmwen ak tout bagay ou a, mwen vle pou nou tout!"_

Peter hoped she wasn't casting a spell. Her hips were bucking wildly, his rod jerking around inside her like a dog straining at a leash, until he felt a convulsion inside him in sympathy with hers. He burst into her body, so much, a river of sperm happily escaping him. Bruja was a bottomless abyss, accepting everything he pumped into her, clinging to him in a daze even as his hands pressed her tight to his body.

"You're getting me wet, baby, really wet—you've put an ocean inside me…"

Peter just breathed. He felt like he had shed a great weight, slacked off old clothes. Something wired up and crazy in his psyche had been burned out of him; he was human again.

He rolled over so she was on top of him, her firm-soft body neatly folded atop his. And, behind her back, he checked his iWatch. The progress bar showed he'd downloaded only forty percent of Bruja's files.

"Not bad for a first time," Bruja told him, glowing as brightly as he did.

"That wasn't my first time."

"First time with me, _zarenyen. _But now that you know what it's all about, mebbe you'll know what to do with some of your friends."

He kissed her deeply. _That, _at least, he'd done plenty of, dating Gwen Stacy, prude of the year, through high school. "Maybe you could show me something else to try with my friends," he suggested, running his fingers down to her well-fleshed ass, teasingly running a fingertip between her cheeks. Bruja gave a nod and felt the pressure of his fingertip build.

"Mebbe you could put something else in there as well…"

* * *

><p>Virus checked out a clarinet recital, a music store, a busker, and a half-a-dozen ghetto blasters before having any luck. Guitar licks were coming out of a bodega's open window. As Virus approached, they stopped abruptly. Someone screamed about a "genuine Carlo Santana from 1998, man!" and immediately a pair of hands were jumping out the window, skittering like spiders down a drainpipe to the street. Virus watched in consternation more than anything else. Those hands moved fast, even by her standards. It seemed to her there was only one way to slow them down.<p>

Leaning against a streetlight, she let them 'see' her as they roamed by. "Hey mister," she said in her come-on voice, "you're kinda cute."


	10. Of Fate Part IV

Virus was in good hands, she had to admit. She broke into an automated meat processing plant nearby, the hands following suspiciously, but she assuaged them by taking off her top. Pawing, squeezing fingers descended on her bare breasts, seeking to squeeze her entire heft in their grip, but finding it difficult. Virus enjoyed the attempt. She moaned and crooned, fingers swirling over her dark flesh, pulling at her nipples or massaging her curvature. One crawled up her clavicle, offering its fingers to her mouth, and she gleefully sucked on them. First one, then two, until she had all four in her mouth, the thumb petting her chin as she fellated its brothers.

She felt the other hand clutching harder to her breasts, its long fingers now trying to catch both at once. Virus popped the tab on her leather pants and eased them down her legs, stepping out of them so her flimsy white panties were the only thing she wore.

"Wanna go exploring?" she asked, popping the right hand's fingers out of her mouth. It sped down her body, into her elastic waistband, and she felt her own wet heat on her groin. She sighed at that first touch, then reached down and yanked the panties' thin material off her full ass, stripping them away so she had room to open her legs wide. Almost immediately, she felt the thick, fat finger sliding up and down her crease. It was a relief.

As the right hand deftly teased her, the left rolled down her curves, fingers spread as it swept from her breasts down over her stomach, across her hip, to the curve of her ass, then back up to her quickening nipples, returning to a soft, squeezing, milking pleasure. Then she felt the right hand find her clit. It kept a finger on it, pushing and rolling it around as she gasped. Virus could feel herself running up the peak of her orgasm.

"You are good with your hands," she moaned, but they turned out to be a little too good.

Instead of letting her have a quick release, the right hand abandoned her clit to penetrate her, while the left hand left her breasts quivering with desire to take up massaging her ass. She still felt her breath coming short, but just as quickly, the right hand left her sopping wet pussy as the left hand tightened on one of her asscheeks, holding it away from her anus as the right hand extended a long, cruel finger—

"Oh! You do like to play dirty! Go on, then—show me what you've got…"

She groaned as the thick digit stopped toying with her anus and squirmed inside, wiggling her ass on the deep-set penetration. The other hand went back to her pussy and she laughed wetly as it took her there as well, middle finger deftly sunk into her depths. Her toes twitched; she breathed hard and fast.

"I said keep going, motherfuckers! I know you're packing more inches than that—"

Another finger pressed inside her sex, making her clench instinctively. Virus sold it, throwing her head back and panting—it really did feel nice. "More!" she said anyway, and two more limber fingers pushed into her, a delicious _stretching _deep inside her, her pussy made for every whorl of those fingers. The finger in her ass danced inside her, massaging her tender, tight space, as the fingers in her pussy pumped into her—deeper every time—a disappearing act in five parts. When they slid in past the knuckles, she screamed.

"Fuck! Your fingers are so _long… _that's enough for now. Leave 'em in my cunt, let me get used to them… fuck my ass. It needs your fingers."

She rolled over, thinking of a crocodile in a death-roll, spinning around to take its prey down to the depths—presenting her rounded cheeks to open air, the hand between them, rolling her hips between two sets of fingers. The second finger that was worked into her was uncomfortable, a bit painful, but had enough skill behind it not to go too fast. She felt herself being spread open, her ass _changed, _like some spell was being cast on her body. The hand at her pussy kept pumping, slower now, not rough, distracting her from the sensation of her ass making the necessary accommodations to having things inside it. The second finger kept going inside her until she had welcomed it to its knuckles.

"Yes, yes," she said in a ragged voice, closing her eyes to know only sensation: pushing and pulling and rubbing and scratching and all of it inside of her, all of it contained within the smallest fraction of her body. She clenched and wiggled, trying to build up the friction her body demanded. The motion inside her had become smooth and slick. Too smooth. Too slick. "More!"

The fingers kept going, more and more and more and more, filling her up, stuffing her full, the pain almost as sharp as the pleasure. In her cunt, fingers scissored and twisted, stretching her, but still not enough to hurt. When they twitched inside her, the smallest motion, Virus thought she was in heaven.

"Your thumb too," she murmured, her eyes opening briefly to let the strange sight replace some of her pleasure, leave her open for so much more. "You know how, don't you?"

The hand between her legs rearranged itself, pinkie under ring finger, index finger under middle—thumb between pinkie and index. Then it began to push.

Virus kept moaning. "Your whole fist… all the way inside me… I'm so wet… fuck me, please, you're almost—" The hand went inside; she felt its thumb tucked against its palm and it was in, inside her, her whole body seemingly centered around that hand. She felt raw, laid open, and her hands were on her breasts, but not for her own pleasure. She dug her fingernails in until she drew blood. Her scream slammed out of her like broken glass in an exploding building. She wiped away her own tears. The hand rested inside her, letting her adjust. Then it began to move, and Virus's mouth was open but no sound came out for a long time.

"My ass too," she said at last. Her eyes closed again.

Four fingers in her ass pressed inward, knuckles slipping inside two at a time. Virus moaned happily as the tight ring of muscle admitted defeat, letting them in all the way. Then the thumb, and Virus's body was forced open, impaled, wounded, but the pain was nothing to her. She accepted the entire hand, the reaming in both her holes, the orgasm that came with it. She rubbed at her clit with her own fingers, a happy slave to her own desire, and came again. Her labia hugged one hand's wrist; she felt the other through the thin membrane encircling the first, a few inches and another world away. She came, came, came, flushing every ounce of pleasure from her overloaded body.

Nisa found her half an hour later. She'd been quick to leave when she'd gotten Virus's car, but even so, traffic in Spice City was a bitch. She found Virus fully dressed, but sweaty and out of it, her eyes glazed over.

"Vi, you found the hands?"

"Oh yeah," Virus replied, her thoughts all running together, "they're in a safe place. Bionic body. It has its advantages. Where's Peter?"

"He said he was coming."

* * *

><p>Bruja did things with her broad hips—rotated them, worked them up and down, drew them upward until only Peter's cockhead was inside her and forced herself back upon him, skewering herself inch by inch. Her breasts swayed with each motion, Peter reaching up to take hold of them, pressing them together as Bruja grinded her hips faster. Pleasure jarred her rhythmic motion and she shuddered her way through a frenzy of lewd excitement, until Peter sat up to bring his mouth to the tingling flesh of her nipples and sucked her all the way up to the top of her peak. When she came, he allowed himself to finally spill inside her.<p>

Brutalized by her climax, Bruja slipped down to the bed. A moment later, she began to snore. Peter dressed hurriedly, pausing only to retrieve his widget from the computer on his way out.

Maybe he should come back some time, say that Mano had lost a foot.

* * *

><p>At their brownstone, Virus and Nisa had the hands pinned in two vices from the machine shop, formerly used to make repairs to Virus. Peter had insisted they waited before giving the hands back to Mano. He came in hair a mess, shirt ruffled, and the two women instantly exchanged a glance.<p>

"Don't say it," he said, and familiarly drew a pair of pliers from the tool rack—him being the one who they usually got to fix Virus up.

"I was only going to say why don't we just hand 'em over, get our money from Big Vinnie, and call it a day?" Virus asked. "I get that he's evil and everything, but it's not like he hired us to do anything illegal. If we were a pizza place, would we not sell pizza to him?"

"Normally, I'd agree," Peter said, picking up a magnifying glass to examine the hands. "But it's been bugging me since the start of this case—why bionics? I know there was some heavy research into the field back in the 21st century, but ever since cloning was legalized, who cares? You get your hand chopped off, just give your DNA to a gene shop, have a new one grown, get it grafted on. Why'd Mano need a set of mechanical prostheses?"

Nisa was like a prize student overeager to be called on. "Mano needed them to play. They make him the best bongo player on the continent."

"Yes, but why would Big Vinnie pay for them? What kind of investment is that, paying for some kid's bionics and hoping he proves popular with audiences?" Peter moved the plier to one hand's fingernail, beginning to pry it open.

"Eww!" Virus and Nisa said as one.

"It's just a mechanized apparatus."

"Ick," Nisa replied, turning around.

Virus didn't go that far, but she did avert her eyes. "I'm half robot and that shit is still nasty."

Peter went on with his work. "The thing is, all the bionics are in the bones of the hand. The meat and skin are just like a glove. So…" Peter got the nail open. It went easily, once he got the hinge. Reaching into the open space, he went past the cybernetic fingerbone and got his pliers on a tiny vial. "You can just use it as storage space."

Virus looked first. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Cocainium-9. Cut this stuff with some flour, you've have enough for twenty kilos, and I don't have to tell you the street value of _that_."

"It's a smuggling operation," Nisa realized. "Mano picks up the drugs from wherever they're being made and moves them right past the cops."

Virus was more practical. "So what are we going to do about it? We breathe a word of this to the cops, BV will feed us all to his Rottweilers."

"Pitbulls," Nisa corrected.

"Whatever."

"You do nothing." Peter took a spider-tracer from a secret compartment on his belt, slipping it into the hand along with the vial. "Let Spider-Man handle it and it won't be traced back to you."

Nisa smiled. "I forget sometimes that you're all heroic."

"Yeah…" Peter's nose wrinkled. "By the way, what's with the smell? Did you dip these things in honey ham for some reason?"

* * *

><p>Ben Urich was working late. But not so late that when he got an e-mail, he didn't have time to check it.<p>

It was from an anonymous source, but it looked real enough. Files from the computer system of Bruja Tyson. She'd done years of research into bionics—the same kind that had been used by M&G to develop their illegal sexbots. According to the files, that was no coincidence. The same shell company had sponsored and collated their findings; it traced back to Big Vinnie.

His phone rang while he was right in the middle of it. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Urich, it's Peter Parker. I know Jameson let me go, but I was wondering if you might need some photos of Bruja Tyson and her lab? I hear you're doing a story on her."

"Yeah… I am… Peter, did you send me these files?"

"Mr. Urich, you're a journalist. I thought you were supposed to keep your sources confidential."

Ben nodded to himself. "Fine by me, kid. Fine by me."


End file.
